221B
by twotwentyoneB
Summary: Caught between two men, one on the side of angels and the other's blood runs as black as death itself. Sherlock/OC Rated M for later Chapters
1. A Spider's Web Begins to Weave

Author's Note (From the metaphorical quill): I do not own anything except the words in this story, not Sherlock nor his wonderful world. Please leave a review. My first post on this site and would love feedback.

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I blew wisps of honey hair from my face as I sat at the bar of a small English pub, sipping a dry ale that warmed in the pit of my stomach and thawed out the chill that had accumulated in my limbs from the fall outside. It was fairly busy, a football match was underway and men were shouting at the televisions around me as I sat quietly at the bar. I relished in the loud as it gave me time to myself. Alone, quiet in the noise. One man stood out from the rest and I could feel my skin crawl the instant he entered the bar.

Too clean, too greasy, too something I just couldn't put my finger on but I had to watch him, my brain forced my eyes to watch like an animal's senses heightened when probable predators were around. He moved closer and ordered some sort of mixed drink or maybe something straight up, I couldn't tell because the men nearby started shouting about some 'bollocks' call the ref had made and booing drunkenly at the television. In that split second of being off focus the man turned to me and smiled, eerily and what I suspect was supposed to be charming.

"Buy you a drink." He didn't really ask, more like stated a fact but I had gathered too much information to be comfortable in a crowded room with this guy.

"I don't accept drinks from men who have just shot someone." I don't know what compelled me to say it but it was the truth. He had just shot someone. The evidence was all over him. He didn't falter except for his eyes darkening and for some reason his smile became more genuine, then he prompted me for an explanation.

"You smell like gun powder. You had to have shot a gun fairly recently, I'd say within 10 minutes for the smell to still be strong enough in a bar like this, plus I can even see some powder burn on your right hand. You're not a cop; the suit is way too nice. Expensive. Very expensive. Couldn't afford that if you were a cop. You cleaned off most of the blood but some is still on your ear, high velocity blood splatter. You're waiting for someone. Surveying the door every minute, a client? So… Hit man?"

I was thinking out loud and that last part made me stand up and shut up. I turned on my heel and headed towards the door as fast as I could, pushing through the groups of people and relishing in the small fact he was meeting someone so maybe just maybe he was staying put so I could disappear and cover my tracks.

I'm half way to the door when he grabs my wrist but I yank it free. He pauses seeing the man he is supposed to meet and I make my exit. I slip on my bomber jacket as I move through the doorway and slip my hands into the pockets. I feel a small card in the left one and pull it out; it's a business card reading:_ J. Moriarty Consultant_. and on the back _'I want you. I always get what I want.'_

I laugh a little hesitantly but throw the card into a puddle at my feet, quickly moving into the evening air and putting as much distance between this Moriarty character and myself as I could. What I didn't know was that he had told his client to wait and followed me out the door watching me drop the card. He didn't follow me further; he had already copied my cell phone data before I had left the pub.

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From the metaphorical quill: Currently finishing my baby of a novel that will be published in the real world so I don't know how much this will be updated but I do have more already written. If you like let me know because that's how I'll know if it's worth continuing to post! 3


	2. A Friend in Common

From the metaphorical quill: This "chapter" is short but I hope you enjoy anyways. 3

Reviews = more posts and longer too ;)

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The next day was slightly warmer as I drudged up the narrow stairs to the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street. John Watson and I had become very close over the years. He had practiced medicine under my father before the war and served with him during. He was more like a brother than anything. My reasons for the visit were light hearted and warm and I was lifted off my feet as soon as I knocked on the door.

I laughed wholeheartedly; we must have been a spectacle because I was much taller than the doctor at 6 ft. along with having this man twirling me round and round. As John put me down we solidly embraced. I took stock of his apartment and realized the dismal appearance, concluding most of the clutter had to belong to his flat mate whom I had never met. John had never really been a messy person.

I pulled my satchel open and pulled out a midnight blue leather-bound book tied with a golden ribbon and handed it to John. He smiled and half hugged me as he accepted the gift.

"I have been waiting for this to be published." He smiled and he unwrapped the ribbon with delicate fingers maneuvering like he was performing some surgical procedure. I smiled. He was always such a gentle man. Yes, he was in the war but he had been there to heal people. He was such a loyal person, a characteristic we both shared and was sometimes our downfall but I could always count on him and he knew he could always count on me for anything.

"Well it's finally done. Of course they aren't all going to be leather, yours was specially made." At that moment Mrs. Hudson came with some tea and smiled rambling on about what I presume is John's roommate 'Sherlock' and we both thanked her before she left. I notice John in a contemplative state, not in the present moment. I let him think and took that time to look around. There were beakers and science experiments all over the entire common area. I wandered over to the bookcase and ran my hand over the spines of the books. Each beautiful works of art but not what I've ever seen Watson read or speak of. This Sherlock had very good taste in books. Many classics that I was itching to pull off their shelves and curl up on John's sofa to read for the rest of the day, but that would be rude and I didn't know how Sherlock would react.

"You remind me of Sherlock. My flat mate." John interjected making me jump a bit. "He and you are very similar, you observe things. You both understand things that most people can't fathom to put together," I smiled and blush a little and thank him while I also reject his thoughts. "But then again you are nothing alike." I laugh and we both return to our seats to talk about the book I had published.


	3. Author's Note

Hi Everyone,

Sorry I havent posted more.

I havent copied it over to 0 and 1s from my notebook. My personal life has gotten in the way of our mutual love of Sherlock Holmes. Personal heartbreak makes it monumentally hard to write about love when you feel like you will never be able to love again. Sorry for ranting. I'll try to post soon.


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